


A Study in Alliteration

by solfell



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M, Post Reichenbach, Pre Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-12
Updated: 2012-06-12
Packaged: 2017-11-06 17:27:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/421456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solfell/pseuds/solfell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Character studies created using only words that begin with the same letter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A is for Sherlock

Aristocratic, austerity.  
Adultery, abandonment, aunt. Animosity, Abel.  
Avast! Art, arsenic, acid, anatomy.  
Asthma. Appendicitis. Acne.  
Adolescence. Acumen. Awkward, alienated, antisocial, abrasive. (Asexuality?) Anguish. (Autism?) Anger. Ambition. Agenesis. Armor.  
Alone.  
Adult. Apathy. Addiction.  
Authorities, amateur.  
Abduction, arson, affair. Answers.  
Abstinence. Appetite. Adrenaline.  
Afghanistan. Assistant, acquaintance, ally. Audience, applause. Adventure. Alignment. Appreciation, affection. (Amazing!) Attachment.  
Admirer. Antagonist. Archenemy.  
Atrium, aorta, artery, apex. Arrhythmia.  
Azurite. Auricle. Awareness. Oh!  
Adversary. Achilles. Authenticity. Assassins. Aegis.  
Adieu. Abyss.  
Asunder.  
Armed. Avenge.  
Absence. Alive. Apology. Atone.  
Affirmation.  
Adoration. Adore.

\-----

Sherlock’s life has been defined by the letter A, but he would find the concept incredibly idiotic.

 _Aristocratic, austerity._ The Holmes estate is beautiful. Old, grand, lovely. Cold in the winter, and that’s what Sherlock remembers most. He hasn’t seen it in over twenty years, so he is unsure if his childhood memories ring true.

 _Adultery, abandonment, aunt. Animosity, Abel._ Sherlock is seven when he deduces his father’s infidelity. Mycroft has known for years, but keeps quiet. The family, surviving on only the façade of contentment, shatters. Mrs. Holmes doesn’t know who to blame, so everyone is blamed. Mr. Holmes the eldest, already feeling the strain of living multiple lives, leaves little by little, over several weeks. The man slowly goes missing, until he has completely vacated the estate. Sherlock is sent to live with his mother’s sister, who resides in London, and he visits the Holmes estate infrequently. Mycroft stays with Mummy, and Sherlock’s seven-year-old mind can’t help but feel betrayed.

 _Avast!_ For years, he is quite committed to the idea of piracy. That is, until Aunt Helen tells him pirates no longer rule the seas, and he should be something practical. (He still secretly gets his kicks pirating music from the internet.) So he focuses on other topics that interest him. _Art, arsenic, acid, anatomy._ It isn’t until Carl Powers that detective work becomes a passion, though, but he seems to be unwittingly training for it beforehand.

 _Asthma._ He eventually grows out of it. _Appendicitis._ When the appendix comes out, Sherlock mourns not being able to keep it. Also, after the surgery, he nearly has to be readmitted to the hospital due to malnutrition. Sherlock is a finicky eater, continues to be, but when feeling any sort of unease, no food will tempt him. _Acne._ He eventually grows out of this, too, which is good because he believes no one will listen to a spotty thirty-year-old. They barely listen to a spotty fourteen-year-old. Idiots.

 _Adolescence. Acumen. Awkward, alienated, antisocial, abrasive. (Asexuality?) Anguish. (Autism?) Anger. Ambition._ Sherlock Holmes is seventeen years of age when he confronts his own mortality and asks himself, “How shall I be remembered?” The answer, of course, is “It doesn’t matter.” He resigns himself to the oblivion that waits, and until then commits his entirety to greatness. Who else can enjoy that but himself? _Agenesis._ He is told early on that the brain in his head and the heart in his chest are all wrong. _Armor._ He starts structuring the walls, building up his observational skills, suppressing and rejecting the hallmarks of humanity that have never made sense. He believes he has succeeded in what he set out to do, though now he can’t remember what exactly it was... he must have deleted it.

 _Alone._ Solitude becomes the only viable option. It suits Sherlock well. It’s safe. Sherlock doesn’t know if he wants to be safe.

 _Adult. Apathy. Addiction._ Years of training his mind to move faster and faster have crippled Sherlock’s ability to deal with moments of tranquility. He grows listless, has been growing listless for years, and he knows the ennui will kill him one way or another. Later, years later, he will wonder if boredom or desperation brought about his cocaine addiction, or if it was both, working in tandem to send him to an early grave.

 _Authorities, amateur._ Lestrade first sees him loitering along the edges of a crime scene, curiosity worn openly on his face. It’s only when Sherlock’s high, the new DI learns, that he doesn’t shutter his emotions. Sherlock solves that case, and shows up at the next scene. He solves that one, too, and Lestrade doesn’t know quite what to do. There’s no manual, really, on what to do will brilliant drug addicts who capture criminals. Did it matter Sherlock cares more about the puzzle than justice? “The end justifies the means,” Sherlock says when Lestrade poses the question. Regardless, Lestrade knows it’s wrong of him to let a high Sherlock faff about on his investigations. So, he gives Sherlock an ultimatum: Get off the cocaine or get off my crime scenes. And, to Lestrade’s surprise, Sherlock does. He disappears for seven months, seven peaceful months, then shows up again, colder, more in control, and in many ways unlike the addict Lestrade sent away. Sherlock without the drugs is more biting, more severe, and far less unwilling to suffer fools.

If Lestrade were superstitious, he’d think it odd that as soon as Sherlock is sober, a slew of bizarre and baffling cases find their way to Lestrade’s desk. He’s not superstitious, he also knows better than to look a gift horse in the mouth.

 _Abduction, arson, affair._ Not all of Lestrade’s officers are sold on Sherlock. Some outright hate him, yet all but a few begrudgingly admit he works magic. _Answers._ Despite the problems his often tactless comments cause, Sherlock provides results. He forsakes the cocaine, and sets up shop as a Consulting Detective.

 _Abstinence._ Breaking the habit isn’t easy. But as long as the cases are interesting and the chases are long, Sherlock manages. _Appetite._ He doesn’t like food. He never has, but since he’s been off the cocaine, his appetite returns with a vengeance. Sherlock is a control freak, if anything, and it’s at this point in his life he plans a strict diet. A set number of meals meals per week, just to keep from collapsing, and fewer when on a case. (A metaphorical wrench in the gears called John Watson will entirely derail Sherlock’s system, but that happens later.) _Adrenaline._ He finds a new drug, and though it might also kill him prematurely, it’s not illegal. Sherlock hasn’t decided if that’s a pro or con.

 _Afghanistan._ John is... unexpected. Not that Sherlock minds. He likes the unexpected. He finds he likes it when the unexpected proves to be a crack shot with nerves of steel. That development is certainly more exciting than the possibility of being poisoned. _Assistant, acquaintance, ally._ He’s not alone anymore, not like before. There are unforeseen benefits. He’ll never say as much, though. _Audience, applause. Adventure. Alignment. Appreciation, affection. (Amazing!) Attachment._ Sherlock never loses his acerbic personality. No, that would be unimaginable and quite impossible. He still does the thing with being mysterious and the cheekbones and an upturned collar, still drops stinging remarks faster than the receiver can comprehend, only now he has a blogger. It makes a world of difference, but does not change his essential makeup.

 _Admirer._ He’s enthralled to have an opponent in this game, especially an opponent that has yet to be dull. Moriarty’s everything Sherlock’s stimuli-starved mind needs. _Antagonist._ His opinion of Moriarty changes drastically at the fifth pip. _Archenemy._ Sherlock estimates just under half of his most interesting puzzles have been planted by Moriarty. He’s not flattered by the attention, not anymore. Flattery loses its luster when the other party kidnaps and straps bombs to important people. Important person. _John_.

 _Atrium, aorta, artery, apex. Arrhythmia._ There’s a heart, Sherlock realizes, and it’s his. There it is—beating out of time against chlorine saturated air. Because John, attached to incendiaries, is a half-step from death. Sherlock sits in the eye of a hurricane, and can feel his blood scream through him, a shallow reflection of his heart. He doesn’t run when John tells him to, it doesn’t even occur to him, but he knows the implications of John’s offer. When the jacket is off, Sherlock stands between it and John, as if by his will alone he can be a wall against an explosion.

 _Azurite._ From afar, John isn’t very remarkable in appearance. Compared to Sherlock, he might even seem plain. But up close, in Sherlock’s mind, John is bewildering, striking, and quite astonishing. He’s never considered another person like he’s considered John. Nor has he ever given an expressive name to someone’s eye color. _Auricle._ Sherlock has a strange fondness for John’s ears. Their shape, their function. It’s inexplicable. For God’s sake. What has he done to me? Oh.

 _Awareness. Oh!_ Irene Adler may be the sort of woman to take her clothes off to make an impression, but she’s clever. She’s clever in ways Sherlock can’t fathom. She knows humans in ways he doesn’t; she’s taken the human heart in her hands and picked it apart until she understood all there is to know. She can see right through Sherlock, and John, and he imagines she could make them dance if she were so inclined. But in the end, it’s her own human heart that brings about her downfall.    

 _Adversary._ Moriarty is back, because he can’t help it, and because he is the same as Sherlock. Except for one thing. _Achilles._ Sherlock has known his latent heart would get him into trouble. Those people attached to his life, the lives to which he’s become attached—they are the weakness to his demigod façade. _Authenticity._ Another weakness, in the form of a question, grown from the seeds of resentment. _Assassins._ They’ll be the first to go, Sherlock vows, standing on the London skyline. He watches John’s cab pull up outside Bart’s. _Angel._ There will be too much blood on his hands for him to ever hope he’ll be one of these. He’ll settle for something lesser. _Aegis._ Athena, goddess of wisdom and war, was said to have had a breastplate bearing an image of a gorgon—an apotropaic symbol meant to avert evil. For some reason Sherlock hasn’t deleted this information yet. He doesn’t believe in fate, but if he did, he might think this information was meant for this moment.

 _Adieu._ He can’t think of anything else to say. Sherlock Holmes, rendered speechless. How singular. If he were actually falling to his death, he likes to think he would’ve said something more than just “Goodbye, John” but he doesn’t know what. _Abyss._ Molly is there to take care of the small details, and Sherlock’s grateful because he trusts her to do all the things he’s not able to do right now. “Where will you start?” She asks. “I have a plan,” he replies. Of course he has a plan, but the less she knows, the better. He refuses to botch this opportunity Moriarty’s given him by getting Molly Bloody Hooper killed. 

_Asunder._ It takes months for him to shake the habit of looking over his shoulder for John. Eventually, he tells himself he’s looking over his shoulder for people who might kill him. The lie only works late at night, though. He knows why, but won’t say it.

 _Armed._ He doesn’t stop, not once. _Avenge._ With near inhuman determination, he goes after the people who threaten what he’s claimed as his. The hurts against him and the people he cares for are avenged. Death doesn’t become Sherlock, creating or faking it, but he does what he must.

 _Absence. Alive. Apology._ He knows John won’t welcome him back with open arms. He doesn’t expect forgiveness. This fact doesn’t stop him from wanting it anyway, or from being happy once he attains it. _Atone._ John follows, as he did before, but he’s closer now than he’s ever been. Sherlock doesn’t mind.

 _Affirmation._ Sometimes, Sherlock can’t figure out why his heart does as it does, or beats the way it beats. Sometimes, he can’t quite wrap his mind around _why_ he went through so much trouble to preserve both himself and the people around him. He struggles with the irrationality of emotions, he always will. But Sherlock realizes there’s value in emotion, and purpose to every trial he’s faced, when John takes his face between his hands and kisses him breathless.

 _Adoration. Adore._ Both etymologically Latin in their roots, adoration and adore relate to the religious ideas of formally beseeching, as if in prayer, the payment divine honors, or worship. Now, their meanings have weakened to something more like a fervent, devoted love. It’s far from apparent, at least to the outside world, but Sherlock adores John. In every sense of the word.


	2. A is for Sherlock

Farnborough. Family, flaxen, farm, frogs.  
Father, firewater. Fourteen. Fag.  
Foxglove. Field, femur, fracture. Fortemente, French.  
Fuck, fiancee, fiasco. Frederick, failure.  
Forward.  
Fatigues. Fifth (Northumberland Fusiliers). Fight, fix, fire. Fear. Fever.  
Fade... (Fuck you, Freud.)  
Fate.  
Florida. Freak. Flatter. (Flirt.) Firearm. Flatmate, friend. Felons, first-aid, forensics, fettuccini, financials. Follow. Films, formulae, fun, fidget, feed. Flippancy, frustration.  
Fusion. Fondness.  
Fulfillment. (Falter.)  
Fame. Fiend. Fraud.  
Faith.  
Fly. Fall. Falling. Fallen.  
Funeral. Fact. (Fallacy, falsehood.)  
Fragile. Filament.  
Forsaken. Forty. Fray.  
Forget .  
Fury. Fists.  
Forgive.  
Feelings. (fuck!)  
Flawed. Flawless.

\-----

John feels haunted by words that begin with the letter F. In fact, it seems his whole life can be explained with that one letter.

 _Farnborough._ Hampshire, born and raised. It’s a decently large city, with a population nearing sixty thousand. Even with its size, it retains a sort of homegrown feel from which you’d expect a doctor and war hero to hail.

 _Family, flaxen, farm, frogs._ The Watsons are a fair headed group, parents and daughter and son. Harriet trends towards strawberry blonde, like Mrs. Watson, and John trends towards dishwater, like his grandfather when he was young. Mr. Watson is lighter than the rest, but John has his blue eyes. Grandma Watson has a farm out a few miles from town. John remembers playing with barn cats and running, always running. It’s the first place Harriet ever sees a frog in the wild, tucked beside an old gray stone beside Grandma Watson’s house. She sneaks out after dark to go hunting for them, armed with only a torch and her rain boots. Sometimes, John goes with her, but he is more interested in the stars.

 _Father, firewater._ John to this day can’t pinpoint where it started, his mother’s drinking, or what caused it. Perhaps a life of trying to make ends meet with little avail, or perhaps his mother had been one of those idealistic youths. Perhaps she once had grand plans for her life that never panned out. John didn’t know then; he doesn’t know now. Childhood just reached a point when he’d come home from school, and his father would sigh and say, “Your mother’s out again,” as if he could do nothing about it. Perhaps he couldn’t, and the realization twists childhood into something unrecognizable. Soon after, John and Harriet’s relationship begins to crumble. Nowadays, when John claims he and Harry never got on, what he really means to say is they haven’t recovered from childhood traumas, and can never forgive each other for it.

 _Fourteen._ Harriet is twelve when she starts going by Harry. She comes out at thirteen, but only to John. He’s fourteen at the time, and thinks, maybe, if he comes out, too, it will bridge the growing gap between he and his sister. When he tells his parents about his bisexuality, all his father utters is: _Fag._

 _Foxglove._ Digitalis, the genus name of the foxglove plant, is often used in treating congenital heart failure. It’s prescribed to Mrs. Watson for this very reason. Even now, years after her death, John still thinks of her whenever he sees foxgloves.

 _Field, femur, fracture._ It rained the night before, and the rugby field is muddy and wet. No one wants to be here, really. It’s cold and miserable and John overhears Roger say it’s going to rain again, and soon. Sixteen-year-old John glances at the slick field and watches as one teammate slips and falls on another’s leg, breaking it a few inches above the knee. In the back of John’s mind, as he runs to the nearest telephone, he recalls that the femur is the most difficult bone to break in the human body. ( _Why do I know this?_ he asks himself. _Because you’ve been reading the medical journals in the library—grab your coat on the way back, James might be going into shock_.) The choice to become a doctor isn’t a sudden revelation. It is... something that happened. Something John doesn’t feel he has a choice in, because he’s been compelled to it for what seems like forever.  

 _Fortemente, French._ The ability to speak another language is beyond John in more than one way. In the dusty, unvisited edges of his memory reside the few words in French he remembers from secondary school—mostly swears or come-ons. In the dusty, unvisited corner of his closet sits his clarinet in its case, sentiment cementing it into place. 

_Fuck, fiancée, fiasco. Frederick, failure._ There have been three serious relationships in John’s life. The first is with a woman named Mary. They meet in uni, and hit it off immediately. John can’t believe his luck. She feels like his second half, his partner in crime, his sunlight and rain. They have been engaged for just over a year when she ends it. Her explanation is nothing more than, “It just isn’t working for me anymore, John.” Sometimes he hates his own name, just because of the way it reminds him of her, and how she said it. Most of the time, though, he carries on. What else was there to do? John isn’t one for prolonged moping, and he’s young, so he tells himself there are plenty more fish in the sea.

Just out of school, he quite literally runs into Frederick (called Freddie by his friends) on the street. Freddie is devastatingly handsome, with a classic sort of face that makes John’s heart skip a beat. And they work, for awhile At least, for nearly two years, for enough time that John thinks they are settled, and enough time for Freddie to move on to a new boyfriend. John looks back and wonders why he imagines things to be one way, when really the other person is completely out of sync with him. He wonders if he has communication problems. He doesn’t, in fact, he just finds himself saddled to people who have a knack for misunderstandings. (The third and final relationship, the one that works despite massive communication gaps and misunderstandings, doesn’t come along until after John Watson travels through Hell.)

 _Forward._ When John feels that life has left him without options, he knows he’s just looking in the wrong place.

 _Fatigues._ They fit like a second skin. _Fifth (Northumberland Fusiliers)._ In the army, nothing else from civilian life matters, which appeals to John’s sense of duty. It also appeals to the part of him that’s closed off and unwilling to trust again. (He muses now on whether he was more messed up before or after the war, and if such a thing can be quantified.)

 _Fight, fix, fire._ Hands are truly one of the most miraculous things about humans. They’re dexterous, capable of fulfilling what the brain can imagine. Capable of pulling triggers, ending lives in a single bright moment, like the snapping of violin strings. Capable of fishing drifting lives back from the edge, of dragging fragmented parts together after what seems like a final absolution.

It’s in Afghanistan that John realizes he fixes things, and if he can’t he tries anyway. It’s what he does, what he’s always done. Trying to fix birds with broken wings, cabinet doors that won’t close correctly, his family, his relationships, the bruised and bleeding soldiers under his hands... He also realizes in Afghanistan that he doesn’t know how to fix himself. The irony strikes him humorlessly as he lies on burning sand, a bullet hole torn through his shoulder.    _  
_

 _Fear. Fever._ After being shot, John feels like some wasted thing, a shadow of festering fiber shoved into a human-shaped vessel. There is pain, splintering across nerves that feel like they should have died a hundred years ago, and then nothing. Fever follows the void, turning his years of scarlet and sand into dimorphous nightmares. He can’t tell if he’s afraid of what he’s faced, or that he’ll never face it again, because it has beaten him. After the fever, after nightmares, is when he is most empty. Eviscerated.

 _Fade... (Fuck you, Freud.)_ John doesn’t talk much about his years in the army, not outside his therapy sessions.

Then again, there really isn’t anyone else to tell.

 _Fate._ Thank you, Mike Stamford.

 _Florida._ Mr. Hudson was very nearly not indicted for first degree murder. Sherlock put a stop to that nonsense. John has mixed feelings about capital punishment, but 221b is a very nice flat. _Freak._ Donovan bothers John from the start. Hell, Sherlock wasn’t exactly kind to either her or Anderson, but nothing about his words screamed ‘bully’ to John. It’s others who retaliate against Sherlock’s brilliance, and who precipitate his attacks through sheer intolerance. John’s instinct to protect Sherlock starts before he ever shoots a man for him. Several hours before, in fact. John’s never been one for half measures. _Flatter. (Flirt.)_ He honestly doesn’t mean to... sound like he’s propositioning Sherlock at Angelo’s. Really, that’s the very last thing on his mind! Later, when they’re giggling over “Welcome to London!” and musing at shared madness, the whole flirting with Sherlock thing is bumped up a few places in John’s mind. Not that he knows it. Call it... a psychosomatic limp of the heart. _Firearm._ It’s first kept in the top desk drawer in his bedsit—he still has the desk, but in 221b, his gun is kept in the small nightstand cabinet. Easy to reach, in case he’s called out of bed. _Flatmate, friend._ Everything’s a process, John has always believed, and becoming Sherlock’s friend is no different.This is what happens before, during, and in between: _Felons, first-aid, forensics, fettuccini, financials. Follow. Films, formulae, fun, fidget, feed. Flippancy, frustration._ Wash, rinse, repeat, throw in a few crazy chases, and _voila!_ you have John’s first few months at 221b.

Also, _Fusion. Fondness._ It’s when Sherlock’s at his most ridiculous (hijacking buses, fighting in ninja garb, parading about in a bedsheet, shooting doorbells, texting while John is on a date) that John knows the full extent of his warmness for Sherlock. This doesn’t make the madman’s histrionics any less irritating, but emotion softens John enough to grant him patience.

 _Fulfillment._ He was lonely. He isn’t anymore. _(Falter.)_ That psychosomatic limp of the heart acts up sometimes. It keeps him from following impulses he would have done without hesitation years ago. Afghanistan left more than just an ugly scar on his shoulder.

 _Fame. Fiend. Fraud._ It feels like the end times, and John grows anxious. Sherlock doesn’t really understand the extent of John’s concern, nor its reason. John doesn’t really think he can explain in ways Sherlock could comprehend.   

 _Faith._ John’s never been a religious person, but he knows more about faith than most people.

 _Fly. Fall. Falling. Fallen._ His heart plummets from his chest, and breaks open on the pavement, visible to the entire world.

 _Funeral._ He can’t think during the funeral. He wonders if that’s more the concussion the biker outside Bart’s gave him, or if it’s from grief. Probably both. _Fact._ He can’t fix this. This isn’t something that can be fixed. It’s unfixable. No matter how he words it, one thing remains unchangeable: Sherlock is dead, and John can do nothing but stare at the stark reality of his tombstone. _(Fallacy, falsehood.)_ (He doesn’t know he’s come a hair's breadth away from death again. He doesn’t know a great deal, and the worse of it is that he _can’t_ know what he doesn’t know. Not yet.)

 _Fragile. Filament._ For the longest time, John drifts. He becomes a strip of nothing, stretched into transparency.   

 _Forsaken. Forty. Fray._ Time passes, as is its wont. He gets a job, pays bills, goes through the motions, but the world’s gone a bit gray around the edges. It feels like the gray, the colorlessness, is increasing, like his life is leeching into the London environs.

 _Forget_. He tries to do this. He finds he cannot.

And that miracle he asked for? Sherlock defies God and returns, beyond all reason and belief. _Fury. Fists._ Of course Sherlock comes back, because that’s always been the plan. The plan John staunchly believes he should have been included in on, but since when has Sherlock ever not been an idiot? He gets a black eye for it, and that makes John feel both better and worse. He fetches an ice pack for Sherlock as a pseudo-apology. It’s Sherlock who’s doing the actual apologies.

 _Forgive._ He does it for Sherlock as much as for himself. How can he be angry forever, when he needs Sherlock, and when it’s becoming apparent how much Sherlock needs him?

 _Feelings. (fuck!)_ It happens soon after: That very moment, hung up against the wall like fairy lights and tinsel, bright and obvious, when John realizes he can’t— _can’t can’t will not ever again_ —live without Sherlock in his life. Immediate. Nearby. Within arms reach. His heart-limp is gone now, and he has no reason to let it return. So he runs, after London’s criminals. (Give me your thieves, your murderers, your horrible masses yearning to bleed, the wretched psychos of your polluted shores—send these, the violent, clever-minded to me!)  He runs, fingers grasping for purchase on Sherlock’s quicksilver world, unwilling to let it slip away again. He runs, most importantly, after Sherlock himself. Sherlock lets him, and the immovable object meets an unstoppable force. It feels weird as much as it makes sense, but so does everything when Sherlock’s involved. Besides, now Sherlock has a new smile, one reserved only for John.

 _Flawed. Flawless._ For all the imperfections and insanity, for all the suffering and strife, for all the times John nearly punches Sherlock in the face, he loves his madman. And if that makes him crazy too, then that’s just _fine_ with John.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may or may not add more characters. For now, I think I'm going to call it finished, and go with that. :)


End file.
